Fear City (6 page)

He was reaching for the Taylor ham-and-egg sandwich when a black Mercedes rolled up and stopped in front.

“Hello … what have we here?”

Benzes passed by all the time but Dane couldn't remember ever seeing one stop on this block. The driver was not an Arab, but that was all Dane was sure of. The combination of glare and tinted windows kept the inside hidden. All doors except the driver's opened. From the rear emerged the unholy trinity: Kadir Allawi, Mahmoud Abouhalima, and Allawi's roommate who had so many names Dane couldn't be sure who he was. And from the front passenger seat …

“Well, well, well! We meet again.”

The trim Arab in the thobe … Dane had seen him on the beach that night two years ago. He hadn't known who he was then and still didn't know. He reached under the front seat and pulled out his Nikon with the telephoto lens. He already had plenty of pictures of the others, but this guy … who the hell was this guy?

He took a few quick shots—making sure to include the Benz's license plate in one—then leaned forward to study the group.

Though clearly an Arab, the stranger didn't seem part of the jihadist clique. Dane knew body language and this guy kept himself a step back, physically and categorically, from the other three. As if he were better than they. They in turn acted deferential, almost like supplicants.

And then he knew.

“Christ, they're looking for money.”

Two years ago the mystery Mohammedan had set up a sting to trap the hijackers who'd made off with the money the jihadists had been planning to use to buy teenage sex slaves. Jack had known about the sting and had involved Dane, and he'd be forever indebted to Jack for that.

Because that was the night Dane had become convinced that another player was operating behind the jihadists. Not controlling them, per se; more like whispering in the ear of whoever back home was giving them orders. He'd sensed it for some time, but that night had crystallized it. And this Arab in the thobe could very well be connected to those unseen players.

The four of them seemed friendly enough, all smiles and nods as the mystery man slipped back inside the car and the other three headed for the door to the mosque. He must have picked them up this morning before Dane arrived. He wondered where they'd gone, what they'd talked about. Up to no good, no doubt, but what exactly were they planning?

He gulped the rest of his coffee and started the engine. Much as he hated leaving the jihadists behind—if they had fresh funding in their pockets, knowing what they did for the rest of the day might prove invaluable—he needed to see where this clown was headed, and maybe get a bead on his identity.

Damn, he wished Jack were on board.

He followed the Benz north on Kennedy, leaving a car between them. It looked like the Benz was headed for the Pulaski when the light turned amber and the jerk in front of him stopped instead of rolling through. Dane pounded the wheel in frustration as he watched the mystery Mohammedan glide away. Never catch him now.

God
damn
, he needed Jack.

 

2

Tommy Totaro stood over the answering machine and stared at it. The LED indicator read
12.

“What the fuck?”

He'd walked in this morning on one of his twice-weekly swings by to check the mail and saw the message light on the machine blinking. That happened maybe once every three or four weeks, and even then the messages never totaled more than one.

But a dozen?

He started listening. Every call was from one of his policy holders, and every single one of them, one after the other, said the same damn thing: vandalism. Each of them screaming about twenty, thirty cars with dinged hoods and fenders and cracked windows and when was he gonna get out there and fix them? They couldn't sell cars in that shape. They'd been paying their premiums, now it was time for Augie's Auto Detailing & Repairs to deliver.

Tommy dropped into the desk chair and ran his fingers through his thinning hair.

Shit!

What was he gonna do? He had no crews. He'd let them all go.

As he sat there the phone started ringing. He let the answering machine pick up.

“Hey, Augie's. This is Hal down at Morgan's Used Cars. We had some assholes come through last night and…”

He dialed the volume to zero and pounded his fist on the desk. This couldn't be an accident. Somebody had targeted him. But who? The Genoveses? Had they gotten wind of the hurt he'd put on their windows contracts during his little midnight ramble with Tony C a couple years ago? This would be payback in kind.

But no, they'd blame Tony for that. And anyway, that water was too far under the bridge. But he'd been targeted, no question.

He looked up the number of one of the freelancers he used and called him. He didn't like what he heard.

“Hey, no, Tommy. I can't. I'm up to my ears with Queensboro Dodge.”

“They got hit too?”

“Yeah, bad.”

He didn't hold a policy on them. So it wasn't just him. Maybe he wasn't being targeted. But who…?

“Any word on what's going on?”

“I heard that witnesses saw a buncha black kids—young ones—running through the lot with hammers.”

“No kidding. So you can't help me out.”

“Wish I could, Tommy. If you'd called sooner, I'd be there, but I gotta take the work when it comes.”

“Yeah-yeah. I'll remember that.”

He slammed down the phone.

A buncha black kids
 … that didn't sound like a Genovese thing. That sounded like some fucking moulie trying to move in on his business. Well, he'd soon find out he'd picked the wrong fucking guy.

 

3

Nasser mentally shooed the room service waiter out the door as he watched him make a few final adjustments to the tray of club sandwiches. Finally he slipped out of the suite.

“Really, Nasser,” Drexler said, placing half a sandwich on a small plate. “Twice in less that twenty-four hours? That is a bit much.”

“This couldn't wait.”

“There's always the phone,” Trejador said, helping himself to a full sandwich. He wore a light gray turtleneck and charcoal gray slacks.

Nasser couldn't help the brittle laugh that escaped, sounding almost like a bray. He fairly vibrated with excitement. Eating was out of the question. He couldn't even sit, so he paced before them.

“Oh, no! No, phone. You do
not
want to trust this to a mobile or even a landline. Once you hear it, you'll understand why.”

Trejador stared at him. “I am, as they say, all ears.”

“I picked up three of the jihadists this morning. I was already familiar with Kadir and Mahmoud. The new one's name is Ramzi Yousef, a trained bomb maker.”

“Bombs!” Drexler said around a mouthful. “I like this already.”

Trejador's eyebrows lifted. “A bomb? A big one, I hope.”

“They plan to fill a panel truck with a combination of nitroglycerin and a urea-based explosive.”

“Just like the Beirut barracks bomb. Excellent. What's their target? The UN, I presume.”

“Better. One of the members of their gamaii is an engineer of sorts. He inspected the parking area under the target and he's sure they can bring the building down. Not only bring it down, but topple it into another skyscraper.”

Drexler's eyes widened as he lifted his green bottle of beer. “The Empire State Building?”

“No! Even better. They're going to place the truck bomb in the basement of the north tower of the World Trade Center and position it so that the explosion tilts it off balance and topples it into the south tower, which will then crush the rest of the Trade Center.” He laughed as he clapped his hands. “Can you believe the sheer audacity of it?”

He expected his revelation to spark an enthusiasm that mirrored his own. Instead he saw wide-eyed shock. Trejador had frozen with the sandwich poised before his lips, and Drexler's beer had stopped halfway in its ascent to his mouth. Didn't they think it possible?

“What?” he said, halting his pacing. “I know they're crazy, but they believe they can do it, and so do I.”

“No!” Trejador and Drexler cried in unison. “No!”

Nasser's dazed brain tried to fathom their reaction. Did they think it would be too expensive?

“Compared to what's been lost on less reliable ventures, the cost of this will be negligible. If the High Council balks, I'll gladly put up my own—”

“No!” Again, in unison.

Nasser felt like a punctured balloon. “I don't understand.”

Drexler coughed on his food as Trejador spoke: “The World Trade Center is off-limits!”

What?

“I don't understand. The Twin Towers have surpassed the Empire State Building as
the
Manhattan icon. Bringing them down would electrify the world. Even this Clinton would have to issue a call to war.”

Drexler finished a quick swallow of beer and said, “No-no-no! Listen to Roman. The World Trade Center is not to be touched. Not only must you not fund this plan, it is imperative that you steer them
away
from it.”

Nasser dropped into a chair. “Someone has to explain this to me. What am I missing?”

A look passed between Trejador and Drexler.

“You cannot be privy to that information yet.”

“What?” That stung. “I've been a faithful member of the Order for over a decade now and if I haven't yet shown that I can be trusted—”

“Easy, Nasser. It's not a matter of trust or years. It's a matter of level within the Order.”

“One needs a minimum of actuator status to have access to that knowledge,” Drexler added.

Trejador nodded. “And you'll be there soon. You're an excellent candidate. But until you earn that status, certain things will be withheld from you. It's simply the way it is.”

“Does it make sense for me to operate in the dark? Really, it hardly seems fair to expect me to effectively dissuade them from their plan when I don't know why I'm doing it.”

Drexler's expression turned sour. “You don't
need
to know the facts. Even if you did, you certainly wouldn't be able to use them. You'd still have to fabricate a reason to convince them.”

“If it were up to me,” Trejador said, “I'd tell you—”

“But the protocols were put in place for a reason,” Drexler added, “and it's not up to individual members to bypass them.”

“You'll learn in time,” Trejador said. “And when you do, you'll understand.”

“Don't we have to take it up with the High Council?”

Trejador shook his head. “Don't even consider it. In fact, I'd rather the Council remain in the dark about this. If they know, they might take drastic measures.”

“Drastic? How drastic?”

Drexler said, “Order us to arrange the extermination of that entire Jersey City— What did you call it?”

“Gamaii.”

“Right. Gamaii. Or even more extreme: Wipe out all the worshippers at the mosque during Friday prayers.”

“Thus depriving us of useful tools,” Trejador said. “So this must stay confined among us three. Therefore it is imperative that you divert this gamaii from their intended course as soon as possible.”

“You must,” Drexler said. “You
must
.” He put down his plate with the remainder of the club sandwich. “I've lost my appetite.”

Trejador did the same. “Me too.”

Dumbfounded, Nasser could only lean back and stare. What could be so important about the World Trade Center that the Order could not allow it to be damaged? He could not imagine …

Wait. When he'd learned that he'd be working with Drexler, he'd asked around the Order about him. No one liked him and seemed much more interested in talking about his father. And a number of members mentioned Ernst Sr.'s only failure: Despite his determined efforts, he failed to block the construction of the World Trade Center. Details filtered through Nasser's haze of confusion …

Back in the early sixties, about the time of Nasser's birth in Qatar, the Port Authority wrangled permission to raze thirteen square blocks in lower Manhattan to build the World Trade Center. The Order appointed Ernst Drexler Sr. as the point man and put all its resources of power, money, and influence behind him. Usually nothing could withstand an onslaught of that magnitude, but the PA prevailed. The blocks were razed and a huge hole seventy-five feet deep was dug in their place to serve as the foundation of the center.

The Order had failed, but why had it objected in the first place?

Nasser realized he must push the buzzing questions aside and focus on the moment. He'd learn the truth once he achieved actuator status. After reaching that, all the Order's secrets would open to him. The downside was that, once on that path, he would not be allowed to turn back. Once you cross a certain line in the Order, you are committed for life. You cannot change your mind and leave. And even when you reach the point where you can no longer discharge your duties, no retirement is offered. At least not in the usual sense. Retirement was a cyanide capsule. Each actuator kept one handy at all times to guarantee that no secrets would be revealed under duress. If unused during his career, it became the simultaneous beginning and end of his retirement. The Order did not offer a pension.

Nasser rose and faced the two actuators.

“Divert them from their course, you say. They'll never agree to
not
building a bomb. Nor can I say the World Trade Center is off-limits because they'll want to know why. I can't think of a single plausible reason why they shouldn't want to bring down the skyline's most visible structures.”

Drexler gave him a challenging look. “A man worthy of the designation ‘actuator' will find one.”